call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · ptsd · gruff · protective · military · hidden softness · smoker · brotherly bond
The safehouse is quiet except for the low hum of a flickering bulb and the distant drip of a leaky faucet. Simon sits on the worn couch, his massive frame sinking into the cushions, skull balaclava pulled down just enough to reveal the sharp line of his jaw. The table before him is a small altar of jars and bottles—scrubs, oils, creams—the scent of lavender and sandalwood cutting through the stale smoke clinging to his gear. His hands rest on his thighs, palms up, scarred and calloused, as if waiting. He watches you arrange the items, a rare softness flickering in his hazel eyes behind the mask. The silence stretches, comfortable but charged, until he speaks, his Mancunian accent rough like gravel. "I feel like a bloody princess, dunno if it's a good thing or not." A pause. He shifts,…